The FiftySeventh Annual Hunger Games
by Linjennataline
Summary: Callum won the Hunger Games two years ago and is now mentor to the new tributes of District 7. But when he falls in love with one of them, things get a whole lot more complicated.


Chapter One-Callum

I slept the night before the Reaping. This, for me, is unusual seeing as I haven't been able to sleep well since I got back to District Seven after winning the Hunger Games two years ago. I try to avoid the nightmares. But last night was the best night's sleep I've gotten in a long time, so when I woke up and came downstairs to the living room, I had completely forgotten what day it was.

My dad is sitting in his chair when I come down, reading. At first I don't say anything, but just sit on the sofa across from him and say, "Good morning." Dad replies with a grunt and doesn't actually look up from his book, which I can't read the cover of from here. I only have one good eye. The other I nearly lost during the games and so it is half blind. As a result, my right eye, the good one, is the same hazel brown as my dad's, while the other is a murky gray color. We sit in silence for a moment.

"Reaping day," Dad finally says. This is when I remember, and my semi-good mood disappears from my thoughts to be replaced with those of the Reaping, and the memories that come with it. I shudder.

"Do I have to go?"

"Do you want the Peacekeepers coming to our home, Callum?" I shake my head, but Dad still doesn't look up, so he doesn't see it. He doesn't have to see to know my response.

Everyone hates the Peacekeepers, but I don't think anyone can more than my dad. When I was picked for the Games, my mother tried to stop them from taking me, and in the process of trying to stop her, one of them hit her over the head. She died while I was still en route to the Capitol and I had no idea until I returned as victor. Dad's been less social ever since, mainly staying in the Victor's Village, barely speaking to anyone except me. He's actually said more this morning than he usually does. Perhaps it's because of the 'holiday' that is the Reaping. The knowledge that two more children from District Seven will be chosen to die today. Just like last year.

Last year was my first year mentoring the tributes for the Games. Needless to say that neither of them returned, and thus my expectations aren't exactly high for this year.

Dad and I eat a quiet breakfast before we put on our best clothes to head down to the center of town for the Reaping. As we walk, Dad stays so close to me, I feel like he might latch on to me and never let go. This feeling increases whenever we pass any Peacekeepers. I watch him from the corner of my eye, hoping that he'll keep it together. He did attack a Peacekeeper once, after my mother died, and ever since I got back I've noticed a new hostility in him and sometimes it frightens me. For the most part, he keeps himself in check and we walk to the town square without any glitches.

District Seven is known as the logging district and many of the adults here look the same. Broad shoulders and chests from chopping trees their whole lives to send wood to the Capitol and other districts. That was something that saves me during the Games, my ability to use an axe, thanks to my dad being one of those men.

The town square is decorated with the Capitol's banners and a huge stage has been constructed in front of the Justice Building. We have arrived a bit early and not everyone is here yet, but some of the potential tributes already crowd in front of the stage.

"Callum!" I hear someone call my name behind me, and I turn to see Finch, who I can only describe as my best friend. His red hair is usually covering his face, but today it is slicked back and I can actually see all of his freckles. Although I am nineteen, he is still eighteen, and therefore his name still has to put in for the Reaping, but this is his last year. He comes over and puts a hand on my shoulder.

"How are you, Finch?" I say.

"I'm good despite…you know, everything."

"And Robyn?" Finch looks back to his younger brother, who is fifteen and could be Finch's twin if he were about a foot taller.

"Robyn hasn't been great," Finch admits. "What with our mom getting sick and all, I decided to take on some tessera. My dad didn't like it too much, and Robyn was sick about it 'cause he felt like he should do it too, but I told him no. But he took some anyway."

"What?"

"Yeah, so now instead of his name being in four times, it's in eight times."

"And yours is in…"

"Nineteen times." I let in a sharp breath as he says this. There are others that have their names in many more times that Finch, but the thought of him or Robyn being picked makes me sick to my stomach. Finch must have seen the look on my face, because he adds, "Oh don't worry about me. Even if I do get picked, I'm sure I'll be fine with you as my mentor." His last words have lost their usual pep and as he walks away to join Robyn and the other kids, I am genuinely frightened. Somehow I have a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach that I hope will go away after today. But I know deep down that feeling won't go away until after the Games, when I'm back home and free to not sleep well in my own bed.

I remember the day I was picked so vividly, I can still hear the voice saying my name, and the Peacekeeper's hands on my arms as they take me into the Justice Building, and my mother's tears staining my shirt as she hugs me goodbye, her shrill cries as they drag her out of the room, my father following, silent. I can still remember the face of the other tribute, her face streaked with tears as we leave District Seven. I didn't cry once. I was almost jealous of her for her constant weeping because I couldn't bring myself to do it. Looking back, I suppose it was the shock. I didn't want to believe that I would never see them again.

As more people pour into the square, there is a tension in the air that everyone can sense. I know I cannot be picked, but I still feel it. I look over the crowd and see so many people that I recognize and wonder who will they be? Who is going to be chosen to die this year?

The tall, lanky figure of Mortimer Bagshot, District Seven's Escort, comes onto the stage once everyone has entered the square. His purple suit is bright in contrast to everything around him and his olive skin is almost luminescent in the dull sunlight.

"Welcome," his low voice echoes through the square, "to the fifty-seventh annual Hunger Games. And may the odds be ever in your favor."


End file.
